Rick Sanchez and Russian Roulette
by fefetama
Summary: Rick plays another round of "russian roulette" and forgets to lock the door. (Primarily angst and hurt/comfort. Updating every wednesday. Fic cover by faringate on DA.)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hi I'm obsessed with this show. Read this vent fic cuz reasons. have fun on this shitty ass roller coaster

(Ps i may have probably definitely fluctuated the narration from past to present and vice versa sooooo... That's a thing.)

It was a dark and stormy night. Okay no it was like evening and shit who knows what outside was like, Rick was in the garage for days.

It wasn't the first time Rick Sanchez has tried to die. Maybe the third or fourth time. What counts as a suicide attempt anyway like where is the Emo Manual TM circle C amirite.

He woke to unbearable nausea and vomited immediately. He fell to the floor beside the mess and lay there wanting nothing more than the world to stop spinning. He moaned, holding his head, staying as still as possible. Vomiting is not great.

"For fucks sake," He mumbled to himself. "Nothing ever works. How the hell is the human body so durable."

After what seemed like an hour, he slowly rose from the floor, ignoring the spinning room. Water. He needed water. He stumbles to the door to the house but falls into the shelf. "FUCK!" He watches his various half-completed contraptions crash to the floor. "Buh."

He flings open the door and nearly bumps into Morty who'd come rushing to see what happened. "Oh uh Rick what hap-"

Rick falls into Morty then pulls away, nearly falling over backwards.

"Ugh," Rick held his head and stumbled past Morty to the kitchen.

Morty followed. "Uh, Rick, are you okay?"

Rick sighed, picking a cup from the cupboard. "Look, Morty, I know you're tryin' to help." He turned to look at his grandson. "But I just need to go lie down. Uh, it's been a long day in the garage, y'know?"

Morty awkwardly reached a hand behind his head. "Well y'know, Rick, I haven't seen you around the past week. Uh, where've you been?"

Rick sighs and returns to getting non-poisonous fluids in him. "None of your business, Morty, now go spout your stupid ass nonsense somewhere else." He waves a dismissive hand.

"Okay, Rick," He resigns, walking away. "If you need something I'll be in my room."

The blue haired man took his glass to his room and searched for his flask. He found it and poured a splash in the water, then chugged it. Taking his sleeping pills, he went to sleep.

He woke with the symptoms greatly lessened, although a headache plagued his consciousness. More water. Thats what he needed.

He slowly (always slowly, the dizzies are a menace) stood and felt cold liquid at his feet. Looking down, he noted the glass on the floor. Ignoring it, he continued to the kitchen for more and maybe some shitty pantry food.

Trudging to the kitchen, he saw Morty's form in the dark, lying on the floor.

Mildly concerned, Rick walks over and looks down at the kid. "Uh, Morty, you're kinda blockin' the fridge so-" He stops when Morty looks up. His eyes are red and puffy. Crying?

"Sorry, Rick," Morty said, quietly standing up.

Rick acted on an impulse and pulled the kid into a firm hug. Morty stiffened then relaxes, about to return the embrace, when his grandpa let go.

"I don't know what the hell you were cryin' about but... I care about you, Morty. Just know that, okay, Morty?"

"Rick-"

The drunk sped off to his room.

Fuck I need to get out of here. Don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it don't think-" He whispered repeatedly while pulling a handle out from under his cot.

With shaking hands, he chugged.

He'd gotten used to the foul taste long ago. No chaser needed.

His ex wife and the beatings and abandoning his daughter to escape and the neglect of his childhood and the bullying in school and all the people leaving and everyone leaves oh god.

He dropped a half-full bottle on the floor with a loud clank and quickly pulled it upwards. Thank god it didn't break.

If he existed.

Who knows.

But probably not with the shit he's seen.

He falls on his bed and curls in on himself.

Don't think about it.

The answer is don't think about it DON'T THINK

"Oh what the fuck's the use!" He squeaked. He knows what happened all those times. And he knows what he's done.

"Please let me go OH GOD!" He wheezes and pulls a box cutter from under his pillow.

He rakes his wrist over dozens of old scars and lies back with eyes closed, savoring the relief as the initial pain wanes. Opening his eyes, he watches the deep red blood soak his sheet. Now, solemnly, he drags the blade again. Then again. Then again. And again.

Suddenly, his heart jumps as a recurring thought pops into his otherwise blank consciousness; You know you're hopeless scum. He clenches his teeth and hugs himself tightly, holding back tears. He squeezes himself tighter and tighter, shaking, until finally he makes another decision.

Rick violently opens the dresser drawer nearby and grips a pill bottle. "Time for another round of russian roulette," He mutters, unscrewing the cap.

He takes them one by one with determination, washing it down with his dearest.

He falls back on the bed in his bloodied lab coat and closes his eyes once again.

And then nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: feedback appreciated always

He wakes up to pain everywhere. And an annoying, rhythmic beep. He dares to open his eyes and sees Morty sitting next to him in a plastic chair. He attempts sitting up but he's so tired. So tired. He falls back in the bed. A hospital bed?

He hears the beep beating faster and some kind of quiet alarm going off.

He looks around. A hospital. Damn.

He moans.

"RICK!"

"Wha-" He croaks.

Morty throws himself on his precious grandfather.

"I'm sorry!" Morty squeaks, puberty glaring in his voice, as usual. "I'm so sorry I didn't talk to you sooner like really talk I knew that you weren't okayandijust-"

"Morty, Morty..." Rick said with a fuzzy brain, but trailed off, and uttered after a pause, "...I'm tired..." And lulled back to sleep.

Rick awoke again to the sound of a heart monitor.

He opened his eyes, mind clearer than before, and looked for Morty. Rick found him immediately in the same chair, dozing off, and he noted his daughter sleeping in the one plush reclining chair in the corner.

He stared off into space until coughing loudly (and painfully, his throat was downright raw). Morty woke with a start at the noise.

"Rick, oh god," He cried out and began to sob. "We thought you were almost gone. They were rushing around and oh god, Rick.."

Rick lifts a heavy arm to pat Morty's back softly. He didn't know what to say to his grandson but settled with "I'm sorry."

"No, Rick! I told you I'm sorry, you don't have to be sorry! All of us were crying, even Dad..." Morty chokes, still holding onto his friend. "I care! I was crying that night because I care and you didn't want me to."

Even Jerry? Jerry hated him, he thought. "Well, Morty... I do want you to care, I just..." He trails of. He just doesn't deserve it.

Rick suddenly notices a pounding headache, incredible nausea, the dripping sweat and heat all over, violent shaking. But mostly the overwhelming nausea. His mouth is over-salivating and he shoves Morty away just in time to vomit stomach acid on his lap. He heaves again and again until it finally stops. He groans and falls back on his pillow, holding his head.

"Oh jeez, Rick," Morty says with concern before walking off to get a nurse.

The drunk moans, overwhelmed by all the symptoms he recognized as alcohol withdrawal. A nurse comes in with a tiny cup of pills and a foam cup of ice water.

"Here, this one's for nausea, this one's for the headache and fever, and this one's an anti seizure medication," She points at each pill and hands it to him.

Rick was only half paying attention but sits up slowly and downs the pills immediately anyway. The gist was; it would make the sickness stop.

He laid back down and shoved the sheets off a himself.

Morty watched his grandfather shake and moan. He hated to see him in pain. He scoots his chair up close to the bed and asks a nurse in the hall for a washcloth. "I'm so sorry, Rick."

The nurse comes in and hands him a cloth. "He'll feel better in a few days, he won't be in good shape for about a month but the worst of it should pass within the week," She says smiling, attempting to reassure the worried boy, and leaves.

Morty dips the cloth in the water, wrings it out a bit, and dabs at Rick's face and neck before placing it on his forehead.

It'll be okay soon, Morty thought to himself. It'll be okay soon. But he cringed and his heart jumped as he remembered that afternoon two days ago.

"Uhh, bah!" Morty finally decides to check on Rick after deliberating for maybe 30 minutes, pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He stiffly speed-walks to Rick's little room and knocks quietly.

No answer.

He knocks harder. "Uh, Rick? Can I come in? Sorry."

He pauses, waiting for a voice that doesn't come.

"Rick? Are you okay, uh, in there..?" He asks, knocking hard again.

"Rick?"

Silence.

"Uh, I'm coming in, okay?"

He pauses a second and opens the door.

He screams and backs away immediately, seeing his Grandpa Rick in a pool of maroon on his cot. The air smelled metallic. He felt nauseous. His grandpa's arms were shredded. Dozens of gaping cuts oozed bright red and landed in the pool of coagulating blood. Shattered glass litters the floor.

"Rick! Rick, oh my god!" He begins to hyperventilate, frozen with shock, before shaking it off and runs to the house phone to call 911.

It's 3:01PM when his thumb hits the call button. The boy runs back to the dying man. Shaking with adrenaline, he stands staring with wide eyes and knitted brows.

"911 what is your emer-"

"Rick! My Grandpa Rick, he's dying, he's done something! I-I-I-"

"Sir, stay calm, what do you see."

"He's covered in blood! His wrists are slashed to bits and he's passed out, he won't answer me! Please help!"

"An ambulance is on the way, sir, please stay on the line until they arrive. Is he breathing?"

"Uh," Morty goes closer and hovers a hand just above Rick's mouth and nose. "I don't think he is, what-.. No wait I felt a little breathe! It was tiny and he hasn't taken another yet, what do I do?"

The woman answers immediately. "Check his pulse. Do you know how?"

Morty already has two fingers under Rick's chin. "Yes, it's barely there and really slow." He squeaks, tears well up and fall quickly.

"Tell me when you hear the knock. Keep checking breathing and pulse, back and forth. Believe it or not, this is a relatively good sign. Stay calm," The calm women's voice instructs.

Morty sobs and does as he's told.

Not more than another minute later, Morty hears a knock, immediately spring up and runs to the door. He opened the door and police rush past him, followed by paramedics.

"Where is he?" One police officer asks urgently, holding a big AED.

Morty leads them quickly to the room and stands back, watching people rush to save his only friend.

They repeatedly call out "are you awake?" as they check his vitals. They get no response. They shake his shoulder and pinch him to no avail as cops search his room. One officer picks up an empty pill bottle that Morty hadn't noticed and gave it to the paramedics. One of them jabs a knuckle in between his pecs with no response, the other then takes out a walkie talkie after reading the medicine label. "Senior male, deep lacerations to the wrist, intentional overdose on _, unconscious and unresponsive to efforts to rouse him. Transporting to hospital ER. ETA; nine minutes. Over."

The walkie crackles, "Got it. Over," as the paramedic jogs back to the flashing ambulance.

She returns with a rolling gurney and collapses it to just below cot-height. Both medics lift and set Rick on the bed, then raise the bed back up. They push him carefully yet swiftly down the porch step, down the sidewalk, and into the ambulance.

Morty follows, still crying silently, gets in the vehicle with his grandpa. Cops get in their cars as the doors slam shut and sirens begin to blare. They rush to the hospital, police leading and following.

The rattled boy's heart only slowed a bit when he was sitting in a plastic chair next to Rick's bedside. He still hasn't woken, but the nurses say he's stable. Morty picks at his stubby finger nails, as he normally does, and watches his grandpa's chest rise and fall. The steady beep of a heart monitor calms the grandson further. He sighs and requests to use a phone to call his family. A nurse agrees and places a phone on the upper counter for him.

Morty dials and listens. Just as he was about to get his mother's voicemail, she picks up, "Hello?"

"Mom," Morty breathes. "Something happened to Rick. I'm-"

"What? What happened!" Beth asks urgently.

"I found him unconscious.. He.. He.. I think he tried to kill himself."

"Oh god!" Beth wails and Morty hears his mother start to cry.

"Mom, it's gonna be okay. They say he's gonna be fine," he tries to reassure her. "He's at the Medstar off Stoney Terrace, room 121."

Morty hangs up and squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip in pain for his friend. He exhales and calls the other two Smiths.

By the time he was done listening to Summer sob, Beth had arrived. She drops her bag on the floor and rushes over next to Morty. She's shaking as she reaches a hand out to stroke his blue hair, ignoring the sweat. "Oh, Dad..."

Tears fall on the white sheet her father rested under as Morty stood from his chair and hugged her arm, joining her in watching their damaged family member.

An oxygen tube rests below his nose. The rhythmic beep continues. A tube connects a needle in the crook of his elbow to a bag of fluids.

A doctor comes into the room and greets us. "Hello, I'm Dr. Harrison, I'll be taking care of Mr. Sanchez." We all introduce ourselves with fake smiles. "In a minute I'll pump his stomach to remove the poisons. It looks like he'll be okay," He nods as a nurse comes in with supplies.

We agree and the doctor hands Beth a clipboard with forms to fill out and sign in place of Rick.

Beth hands a couple sheets to the nurse and the doctor asks then to give them space. The family (minus one) retreats to the waiting room. A TV in a corner plays the news muted. The room is silent except the occasional bout of coughing or tapping of iPhone keys.

All four sit in the chair in a row in silence.

Summer takes out her phone to tell all her friends what's happening (keeping specifics secret of course because nobody talks about suicide or mental illness). Jerry watches the news, squinting to read the subtitles. Beth doubles over in the chair with her head in her hands. Morty prayed to the proverbial god he never really believed in, thinking that if there were a god, he could at least ask them to help Rick and the rest of his sad little family. He had to try. Rick would be disgusted with him for it. He smiled weakly to himself at that.

All they could do was wait.

It's been three days since that afternoon and Rick isn't himself. He's shaking, and he's quiet but confused. He hasn't slept. Beth and Morty have tried to converse with him but he doesn't understand them very well.

Beth leaves the room to cry on Jerry's shoulder. Morty stays and sulks by the bedside. It was painful to watch.

The doctors assure the family that Rick is actually doing relatively well despite his appearance, all things considered. It's hard to believe. Doctors talk to Beth about inpatient mental treatment. She says no, but they say they'll have to force it if she doesn't sign. She reluctantly signs and they tell her they'll start looking for a bed, but they'll have to monitor him for at least another week. Morty asks why. They say that they need to make sure his vitals stay in a safe range and keep the symptoms at bay. Morty asks what's wrong with him, he didn't think Rick would still be this bad from the overdose. The doctor told him that alcohol withdrawal was a serious thing and that his grandfather drank a lot. Morty knew he drank a lot, but he didn't know alcohol withdrawal was a thing, wasn't that only for heroine and stuff?

The doctor leaves and Morty commandeers the recliner to nap. He hasn't left the room except for the restroom. Beth says reluctantly that she has to go back to work tomorrow. She says Jerry will be there for him. Morty says that won't be needed.

Waiting waiting waiting.

Rick suddenly shoots up in the bed, sweaty and shakey as ever, grabbing at the space his flask usually is. He looks around the room, looking alarmed, and Morty stands to comfort him. Day 4 in the early afternoon and things only seem to be getting worse.

"Rick, it's okay, we're in-"

"WHERE AM I!? WHERE'S MY STUFF!?"

"Rick, calm down, it's-!"

Rick screams and jumps out of bed, the heart monitor falling off his finger as the IV tugs at his arm and he shrieks in pain.

"Rick!" Morty panics and moves to stop him from leaving.

Rick screams in fear as Morty and nurses approach him, having heard the heart monitor flat line. He backs away at first, panting, then pushes through all the staff. Morty chases him down the hall to a locked double door. Rick pushes at it and bangs, his eyes wild and desperate.

Morty reaches him. "Rick! It's me, Morty! It's okay!"

Rick turns to face him. "What?" He asks, genuinely confused.

"Morty! Your grandson?" Morty says, putting a gentle hand on Rick's back.

"...What?" Rick asks quietly, eyes unfocused.

Morty holds his hand as staff come to lead him back to his room.

"Where's my stuff?" Rick repeats quietly, eyes flicking from one nurse to another. "Where am I?"

Staff replace the IV needle and the heart monitor. Morty keeps talking, trying to soothe him. Nurses strap his arms to the sides of the bed. Rick is terrified.

The man looks from side to side, eyes blank, and babbles quietly. Morty can't understand what he's saying. Something about Unity? Did he think they were here?

Morty finds the wet cloth on the floor and gently wipes sweat from Rick's face, who doesn't seem to notice it.

It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay, Morty repeats to himself.

It's day 6 and Rick is a bit better. He still talks at nothing and has panic attacks, but he seems to understand a little clearer when spoken to. Morty thinks he's not talking to him, Beth, or Summer because he knows now that his brain won't be able to respond coherently and he doesn't want to embarrass himself.

The doctor says the fever has come down a little and Rick is on the upswing from here. The family gets a bit of relief from that.

Morty sits alone with Rick, who's tossing and turning, trying to sleep. The doctor says he probably won't be able to, but they don't want to give sleeping medication yet because of what he ODed on.

The boy saw his friend when he woke this morning and he looked so sad.. Before he was in too much pain to show much emotion or probably think much at all, but now everything is hitting him hard. His face is pale, dark circles are even worse than usual, his eyes are glassy, his brows knit in some kind of emotional pain, he doesn't smile at anything, and he won't eat. The nurses say low appetite is normal, but it still worries everyone.

"Morty!"

A familiar voice wakes the boy on day 8. He blinks and rubs his eyes. It's dark in the hospital. Night time. "Wha?"

"Morty, where's my stuff?" Rick questions seriously.

Morty blinks at his surprisingly coherent inquiry. "We took it home."

"What the hell do you mean?" Rick snapped, looking around. "Did you SNITCH ON ME, Morty?"

Morty looks anywhere but at his grandpa. "Well, you were dying, Rick. I was scared..."

"Morty! Do you know what you've done! Oh GOD!" Rick shoves his head into his hands forcefully.

"Rick, I-"

The drunk cuts him off. "PEOPLE LOSE THEIR SOULS IN THERE, MORTY! I've seen it!" He hisses urgently and turns away.

Lunch comes and Morty nudges it toward Rick, who's staring at the TV playing kids cartoons.

"Rick?" Morty taps his shoulder.

He turns his head to look and sees the food. He ignores it and continues watching a blue humanoid cat and orange fish run around the screen.

"Rick, just one bite," Morty begs. "Please. For me, Rick?"

"No, Morty," Rick mumbles.

"Please?"

"No."

"Rick-"

"No, Morty! I said NO! Fuck off!" Rick growls and glares at his grandson.

Morty falls silent and pauses before leaving the room to sulk in the bathroom.

Rick watches him leave and mentally kicks himself. How could he yell at his grandson like that when he was only trying to help? And Rick knew he's just irritable and grumpy being forced into sobriety, however temporary. He resolved to apologize when (or maybe if) Morty returned. He laid back in the shitty bed and pulled the sheets over his head. "Fuck, I'm terrible," He chuckles quietly to himself.

Ya know what, Rick? He thinks to himself. Go ahead. Think about it. Think about what you've done. Everything that's happened in the universes. Everything you've seem. Go ahead. You deserve the fucking pain.

He closes his eyes as a familiar flashback consumes his cloudy consciousness.

A raging blonde woman screams bloody murder in zero clothing in an old messy kitchen. She throws anything she can find. A box of cereal strikes a younger Rick in the head. Fear clutches his heart as he backs into a wall.

"Sarah stop! Please!" Rick pleads, but he knows it won't help. It never did.

His ex wife screams again, stomping over to him. He shields his head with his arms as she beats him repeatedly. He cries out when she hits a bruise on his side. From the corner of his eye he sees little 6-year-old peeking in the doorway.

"Go, Beth," Rick chokes out.

The little girl runs back to her room.

"I'm leaving, Sarah!" He moves to the door cautiously.

"Of course! You always do!" She sneers and smacks him one more time before he escapes.

He jumps in his space ship and sighs, rubbing at all the bruises. He's starting to like the look and feeling of them. He flies off to visit Bird Person, his only friend. He knew what he's say, but he needed someone, and he could use a drink.

Back in the hospital room, he relaxes and lets the tears fall for once. You deserved it, he thinks, she knew who you would become; all the lives you'd take, all the shit you've put Morty through without a single apology, all the planets in distress that you've ignored, abandoning your little daughter and mooching off her many years later with no apology either, and much, much more...

You are scum.

He clenches his teeth and curls into a tight ball under the covers. He hears light footsteps enter the room and his face instantly reverts to blahze. He wipes his shitty pathetic tears and readies himself to face the world again.

With a deep breath, he sits up. "Morty, I'm sorry I yelled at you, I'm kinda irritable with everything goin' on and y'know..." He says awkwardly.

Morty stares at his grandfather. He never apologizes. Never. "Rick, it's fine, are you okay?"

The old man sighs in exasperation. "Well clearly I could use a drink or two, Morty but I'm fine as usual."

The kid stands and hugs his friend tightly. "I'm sorry all this is happening and I want you to get better."

"Well, Morty, I'm not sick, but thanks," he pats his grandson's back affectionately.

"But you are," Morty insists, stepping back to look Rick in the eyes.

"I don't have the flu, Morty."

"No, but you tried to kill yourself so something is wrong. Not to mention your crippling withdrawal. So don't pretend everything's cool."

Rick averts his eyes and they sit in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Rick sulked under the covers, dreading what was coming. Mental facilities are hellish nightmares.

He'd been in a mental ward once many years ago, when he was still with Sarah. She'd found him cutting his leg in the bathroom, busted down the door and everything. Damn she was infuriated, called the cops and beat him black and blue before they took him away. He told everyone that he didn't know where the bruises came from, so they assumed he made them himself. Idiots.

It's 10 days after his latest attempt and they're talking about transferring him to another hospital with a mental ward. He protests halfheartedly, knowing nothing would change anyones minds. "That isn't necessary," He rolls his eyes.

"Dad, this seems to be what's best for you," Beth says softly, putting a supportive hand on her father's shoulder.

"Oh, and what do you expect me to say to these assholes, Beth. You expect them to believe I travel through portals to other dimensions? That I take my grandson on adventures in space? Seems likely!" Rick spits, his words dripping with sarcasm.

"I donno, Dad, I guess don't tell them that," Beth says.

"That's all I do! You expect me to make shit up? I didn't sign up for this clusterfuck."

"Well, I didn't sign anything either," She retorts.

"Yeah, actually, that's literally what you did," He says flatly.

"I said I was sorry!" She says defensively. "They didn't give me a choice!"

"Whatever."

Morty finally went home yesterday to get some well-deserved rest. A nurse comes in and tells them that a social worker will come today to interview Rick. He begins thinking of phony stories and bullshit.

Hours later, the family is at home and Rick starts to wonder where that shitty beurocrat is. Another hour passes and finally a woman comes in.

"Hello, Mr. Sanchez, is it okay that I ask you some questions?" She asks, taking a seat beside the bed.

Rick smiles politely (he's fairly good at acting). "That's fine."

The lady smiles. "So what brought you in here?"

"I tried to kill myself," he mumbles.

"How?" She scribbles on her clipboard.

"Pills."

"What about these cuts, what are those about?"

"Self mutilation."

"For what? To kill yourself?"

"No. It's for a chemical release in the brain. Makes people calm."

"What made you try to end your life?"

Everything.

"I was just overwhelmed with life's expectations," He lies, feigning resignation.

She asked a lot of questions about him and his life. Most of his answers were lies, but he did decide to tell the truth about Sarah. Why not, it's confidential, right?

"Have you been abused or are you being abused?"

He paused. "Once."

"I'm sorry. By who?"

"My ex wife."

She looked mildly surprised for a second. "What did she do?"

He sighs. "Throwing things, beating me, y'know, that kinda shit."

"Like punching, kicking,..?"

"All of it."

"I'm sorry. And you didn't fight back?"

"No. I loved her."

She asks about seeing things or hearing things. He never has except when he's taken drugs or going through withdrawal. He doesn't envy those who do. She asks about past treatment; meds, therapy, past hospitalizations blah blah blah. He took meds once for like a month. It made him so blank and sleepy so he stopped taking it only a couple months after starting it.

It's over in ten minutes or so and she leaves, telling him they'll look for a bed and he'll be out of here by tomorrow at most. He lays back and tries to sleep. He miraculously succeeds. Nightmares that he won't remember in the morning invade his dreams as per usual. Another night of shitty sobriety.

He wakes to gentle tapping on his arm. A brunette nurse smiles kindly in the dimly lit room. Rick sits up slowly, looking around in a daze. It's dark outside the little window and ambulance transporters stand outside the room with a gurney.

"Do you people always transfer us at 3am," He mumbles, standing and rubbing his temples. A splitting headache pounds in his skull.

The ride is somewhat lengthy and by the time the ambulance stops at their destination, he vomits on his lap. "Ugh."

They take the soiled sheet and crumple it into a ball on the seat before unlocking the wheels. The doors open and the one driving extends the gurney legs with a click. They roll him to a door with no sign and press a button to call into the building. "Inpatient admission."

An old white guy comes to the door and lets them in.

"Okay," One of the paramedics says with a wave as they leave. "Feel better."

Rick sighs and follows the nameless man. Rick signs a bunch of papers and then waits. Warm yellow light shines through the window in the office.

"They'll be down to get you soon," The man says, scrolling on his iPhone.

Twenty minutes pass and a blonde woman in navy blue fabric scrubs comes in. She motions for him to follow her and he does. She leads him to an elevator and they wait to get to floor 2. Rick looks and finds her name tag. Sharon.

He trudges through the door when it slides open to reveal a dimly lit hallway. Sharon leads him into another small office, bare save for three chairs and a desk with a computer as well as a phone on it. She asks him all the same questions as the social worker in the ER. Same replies he'd rehearsed in his head. She finally let him go to bed an hour before they were gonna wake everyone. As he went to his room, he passed a decorated cork board on the wall which had a word collage. "Compliance, peace, health, happiness." Rick sneered at it and lay on the slab of plastic covered foam, rough sheets against his warm skin. He closed his eyes, but knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He almost cried thinking about the shit that goes through his mind when he lies alone in the dark, stone cold sober.

Hours pass and he finally gets up to scope the place out. He walks silently down the white hall in his shitty hospital socks and throwaway scrubs that are way too big on everyone, especially Rick. He passes identical brown doors on the left and white doors on the left. He heads toward the front where he saw people sitting at a long table in a big room. He'd have to keep as quiet as possible as he hadn't rehearsed anything for this part. A chubby white blonde in the blue uniform greets him and motions to a chair next to her. He sits silently.

"What's your name?" She asks.

"Rick." He answers simply and scans everybody. Mostly middle aged men, some black some white, all look tired as he assumed he did as well.

"So who's next?" She asks the group and turns to Rick when nobody answers. "This is morning check-in. Just say your name and how you're feeling today."

"Hey, I'm Rick. I'm tired," He says with a little wave.

"It has to be a FEELING," the nurse told him.

"Tired is a feeling," Rick replies, matter-of-fact.

She shrugs and moves on to another patient, a young woman with curly dyed hair. Green. "Eve?"

The green haired girl sighs. "Y'all know me, I'm Eve. I feel tired too."

"You say that every time," Another woman says.

"Yeah," Eve shrugs. "It's true every time."

"How about something different this time," the nurse suggests.

Silence.

"Empty, I guess."

"Okay, well, has everyone gone?" Asks the nurse.

People nod immediately.

"Okay, room time, then!" She announces and everyone gets up, heavy green plush chairs scraping the cheap white tile flooring.

"Uh, when can I use a phone?" Rick asks the nurse.

"Phone time is during visiting hours, 6 to 7, and before bed," She replies as she gets up and returns to the nursing station.

Rick trudges back to his room to find a room mate sitting on their bed next to his. The man is black, middle aged, tall and gangly.

"Hey," The man greets him.

He waves in reply and lays down again. He's gonna go apeshit in here.

A bored Rick paces the room back and forth. Light of the sunset filters through the blinds. He had asked the staff earlier to call his family and tell them the visiting hours and to bring his clothes and books. He hoped they didn't forget, these scrubs were hot as the devil's asshole. He had flipped through the old magazines in stacks on a counter in the common room but all he found were women's beauty crap and a couple torn up National Geographics. He'd asked about the TV but they said it was for weekends and before bed only.

He stopped pacing and emerged to peak in multiple rooms to see what others were doing. Most were laying in bed, but the green girl was drawing something, sitting on the windowsill. He was never good at drawing but he could write something gory or sketch out ideas or something. He grabbed paper sitting out on the nurses station and requested a pencil. They said they only gave colored pencils so he took a red one of those (all the black ones were lost or stolen).

A/N: This chapter's short and stops abruptly but I didn't wanna go on if I was going in a bad direction. Is this part interesting or should I skip ahead and if yes, to where? What do you guys want to see most. I know *I* wanna write gory shit and dramatic revealings, but aside from that, what are your requests? Also please critique the writing style of this chapter cuz I feel odd writing people who aren't named or aren't important. Should I flesh out the side characters or is that dumb? Thanks for reading and please comment/review with your replies. Also if you're reading this you're probably not feeling well and please know that I know how it is and you can PM me on here or on my tumblr; .com


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Italics = thoughts now cuz I just found out that the Notes app on iphone (where I always write) can do that shit so yeah here's your barf (also didnt get any responses for chapter 3 so i'll just use my best judgement).

Visiting came at last and Rick sits in a chair next to the back windows, bouncing his leg. People started signing in at the nurses station and Rick jumps up, looking for his family. He spots a familiar short kid in a yellow shirt and runs over to him. He grabs Morty's arm and drags him off to his room. Beth, Jerry, and Summer follow.

Rick shuts the door behind him and lets out a half-sigh half-scream. "Holy FUCK these tight asses are driving me crazy."

"Well, you kinda already were," Jerry smirks, proud of himself, earning a smack in the arm from Beth.

"Shove it up your ass, Jerry," Rick sneers and plops down on the bed.

Beth joins him and side hugs him. "I'm sorry, Dad. We're here to support you."

Morty sits on his other side and hangs on his arm affectionately. "Yeah, Rick."

"Oh stop with the lovey dovey bullshit, like, thanks and everything but no thanks," Rick rolls his eyes.

Summer sits on the desk.

Jerry sits in the chair next to her. "So are you gonna quit drinking now or what?"

"Hell no," Rick replies dismissively, glaring at him. "That's not the issue."

"Then what is?!" Jerry snaps.

"Jerry!" Beth exclaims and touches her pointer finger to her lips angrily. "Dad, maybe that's not your main problem, but it is a problem," she turns to her father with a sad look.

"Oh, come on, Beth. It's gotten me this far, and that's saying something."

Morty pipes up. "Hey, Rick?"

Everyone looks at him.

He puts his arm back in his signature awkward position behind his head. "I want you to quit."

"Shut the fuck up, Morty," Rick says coldly.

He sees his grandson's eyes well up with tears.

Rick sighs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Still pretty irritable.. I'm not used to this and this place doesn't help."

"I thought that was the point, though, helping?" Jerry says.

"Yeah," Rick spits bitterly. "Supposedly."

"Well, uh, what's so wrong about this place? Everything seems okay, I donno," Morty says quietly.

"Yeah, it seems fine 'n' dandy to anyone who doesn't have to stay here for weeks. But, hey," Rick punches Morty's arm playfully, not feeling like working himself up to explain it. "I play my cards right and I'll be outta here in 6 days or less."

"Dad," Beth says, concern in her eyes. "I don't want you to just do whatever just to get out of here, please just try to listen and-"

"Don't you think I've tried, Beth," He asks, exasperated. "I've been here before."

Everyone looks surprised. "When?" His daughter asks.

Rick lets out a frustrated breathe of air. "Back when I was still with your mother."

She nods, looking straight ahead.

"And, hey, Beth?" Rick asks sheepishly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I left you there all those years ago. There was more to it than you know, but I'm sorry."

"Oh, Dad," She hugs him tightly and pulls back with tears in her eyes.

He knows apologizing doesn't make it okay. He knows nothing can ever repair any of the damage he's caused, to Beth or anyone else. He looks at all his family's faces.

Summer and Morty solemn, Beth smiling sadly to her hands in her lap, and Jerry being the asshole he is, glaring at him.

"Well, anyway," Rick breaks the silence, picking at a scabbing cut on his arm. "Did anyone bring my shit?"

Beth nods. "I gave it to the nurses at the front. They said they have to search it."

"Okay," Rick says, relieved. "The books too?"

"Yeah, I found a couple Asimovs in your room, but I didn't wanna dig around in your things," Beth says.

"Oh thank god," Rick breathes. Issac Asamov will save him from this crippling boredom, although he's read every one he owns multiple times. "So, Morty! What kind of adventures are we gonna go on when I get outta here, how 'bout a visit to Bird Person?"

Morty smiles and squeezes his grandpa's arm. "Yeah, that'd be good."

They joke and laugh until visiting ends and the staff deliver his belongings to the room.

They say their goodbyes and Rick gives Morty an affectionate hair tussle. He didn't want them to go but he took a deep breath and shuffled back to his room, hiding his sinking heart.

It was day 2 in the loonie bin and shit was seriously testing Rick. Greenie the weenie is depressing as shit and doesn't even try to hide it, a cooky old guy older than him wanders around babbling, two middle aged ladies do nothing but whisper to each other, and everyone else is quiet and boring. Although, Rick has kept to his room for the most part, coming out to nibble food and to pretend he's participating for a while. At least he had his clothes back, especially the lab coat. He felt weird without /

This morning they'd made him wait in a line for medication. When his turn came he threw them back and quickly hid them in his cheek before lifting his tongue for the nurse to look. They don't check all that thoroughly.

Later, he emerges for lunch call and goes down to the cafeteria with everyone. He waits in the line outside the cafeteria for all the teenagers to get upstairs. Most of them are talkative but separated by gender. The adults enter and wait in line for shitty frozen-in-bulk food.

Rick sits down at a table in the back by himself and pokes his mush with his fork; mashed sweet potatoes, cooked spinach, and lasagna. A chair scrapes the floor next to him and looks up to see Eve, the green girl. He ignores her and returns to playing with his food. She sits silently and eats a few minutes before speaking up.

"Hey," She says.

"Hm?" Rick looks up.

"Why are you so quiet?"

"Eh, nothing to say," He replies simply and returns to his food.

"You're in your room a lot, y'know they don't like that, right?"

He continues staring at the food he's mashing around and says. "Well, how much don't they like it?"

She pauses. "Well, I feel like they might make you stay out of your room if you keep leaving groups. So they hate it."

He looks up, eyebrows knitted. "They do that?"

"Yeah, it's happened to me twice. And then if you get pissed at them for it they'll put you in the 'quiet room'," she warns with air quotes. "Actually, that goes for anytime you get pissed."

"Well, aren't you the expert," Rick says sarcastically, even though he was mildly intrigued. He'd been in that shitty box for days last time.

She shrugs sheepishly. "Eh, sortof. This is my tenth time in a place like this I think."

Rick raises an eyebrow. "How?"

"Well," She says, making gestures with her plastic fork as she spoke. "Shit started when I was pretty young, so I didn't catch on that these places are never here to help, they just hold you 'til they've sedated you enough or you lie enough."

Rick laughs mirthlessly. "You're still pretty young, kid, but you know the breaks."

"Yeah, I guess," She says with a crooked smile. "I meant like even younger. I was fourteen, but I've seen people whose shit hit the fan even younger."

Rick sighs sadly. "That sucks."

"Yeah, it really does. My high school transcript is a pile of shit because of it, plus I don't really know what I'm like as an adult because I've always been like this."

Rick takes a reluctant fork full of sweet potato into his mouth. Too sweet. Nothing tastes good. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," She says, taking a swig of water.

"Shit, man..."

She gives a tiny insincere laugh. "Them's the breaks, right?"

"Damn straight, kid. Damn straight."

 _Damn straight depressing._ But with all the loony old people around he figured the kid could use a friend at least for now. Plus, she seemed like she knew a thing or two about this and that. The ward returns to their rooms after the meal and Rick lays on his bed, staring out the window next to it blankly. _Everything sucks._

"Jesus christ I need a drink," Rick mumbles to himself, annoyed with the world.

"You 'n' me both, man," his room mate replies from the other bed, lying under the covers and facing the other way.

Rick states in groups and to the psychiatrist over the next couple days that he regrets what he did and feels much more clear-headed. Staff always nod and ask questions like "how would you rate your safety scale" and "what would you do if you went home today?"

He lies and remains the "perfect patient" for three days, coming to the idiotic groups more, being quiet, obeying everything (or appearing to be).

On the morning of day 4, he asks the psychiatrist when he'll get home. The "doctor" tells him not to worry about it and focus on treatment. Rick bristles but remains polite with moderate restraint.

Rick waits for meds, fakes them out, checks in positively, and goes down to breakfast.

Couple more days, he thinks, just a couple more days.

He gets his over cooked frozen pancakes and sits in hi usual spot in back. Eve joins him.

"Hey, buddy," She says, taking a seat.

Rick nods. "Hey."

"Isn't this syrup awful? It's not even maple syrup, it's just dyed corn syrup," She complains, attempting to cut the pancakes with the edge of her fork (no knives allowed, even plastic). "Damn I need a cigarette. These patches don't hold you off forever."

Rick shrugs, stabbing a whole pancake in the middle and biting a piece off. Cutting it is too much work. "Yeah, I used to smoke way back when."

"Why'd you stop?" She asks curiously.

"Smoke breaks took too much time. Didn't like the naggin' need for a smoke."

"Don't you drink? I saw you in the AA group."

Rick looks away. "It's kindof a different thing."

Eve shrugs. "I gotchu."

"Aren't you only eighteen though?" He asks with an eyebrow raised, knowing her answer already.

She laughs mirthlessly. "Yeah, but I've got connections!"

"Mm," Rick grunts and takes another piece from the fork.

Day 5:

"Ugh, these assholes spewing rainbow sunshine vomit all day, it makes me fuckin' SICK!" Rick complains to his family during visiting.

"What does that mean?" Morty asks, confused.

"Ugh. It MEANS these self-righteous idiots don't know what they're talking about. Optimism isn't the god damn answer to everything," Rick mumbles, sitting on his foam slab. "And that control freak psycho who calls himself a doctor isn't even listening to me."

"Dad, I'm sure he's listening, he just-" Beth tries to state but Rick interrupts angrily.

"Just what, Beth? Just WHAT!?"

"They're here to help, they're not your enemies and neither are we!"

"Wow," Rick rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Are you really pretending that I'm just a paranoid, stubborn child? Are you purposely trying to annoy me, Beth. Because you're doing great. Add that to your resume."

"I'm not trying to say anything like that, okay?" She says, searching for the right words. "It's just maybe you're too close to the situation to see that you... You..."

"Great talk, honey," Rick says flatly and stands. "Welp! Who's up for some poker! Huh, Morty?"

"Uh, sure, Rick. But don't we need chips or something?" Morty says, slightly put off, considering they'd never had a family game night or anything before.

"We can improvise," Rick says. Picking up an empty foam cup from the desk he and his room mate share and proceeds to rip pieces off. "Foam is 20, paper's 10, and, uh.." He looks around for something else to use. "Ah," He walks over to the bed and rips a strip of fabric from the sheet. "Cheap ass fabric is 5."

"Dad!" Beth scowls at his damage of property.

"It's fine, Beth, people rip the sheets all the time, that's part of why they're so shitty," Rick assures her, focused on ripping everything and making need piles. "Let's all start out with 5 20s, 10 10s, and 15 5s."

Everyone sits on the floor in a circle and plays cards in between casual conversation and wise cracks. Nothing to do but cards, really, so Rick savors the time with them, the slightest taste of normal, of freedom, of happiness.

"I'VE BEEN IN THIS HELL HOLE FOR 6 DAYS NOW AND YOU WON'T EVEN TELL ME WHEN YOU'LL RELEASE ME FROM THIS FUCKING PRISON YOU CALL A HOSPITAL YOU'RE A FUCKING SELF-RIGHTEOUS CUNT BAG!" Rick bellows in the psychiatrist's office on the morning of day 7. He couldn't take it anymore.

Two nurses open the door and enter, one holding the door open.

Rick stands and shoves two middle fingers in the doc's face.

"I've asked you to leave politely." The Indian man says calmly and condescendingly (as they always do).

"Oh! You think that's polite?!" Rick faux laughs loudly. "You're a DICK! Go FUCK yourself!" He leaves the room fuming and returns to his room stiffly.

Nurses and techs follow him, commanding him to go to "the quiet room". He stops, takes a deep breath, turns around, and trudges back, eyes squinting incredulously in annoyance. _Fine. Fine. It's better than the alternative._ He sits in the small, empty windowless room on the single item in the room; a shitty foam rectangle.

 _This is fine, it'll be over soon. Over soon?_ He shakes his head vigorously (for once no excruciating headache as a result). _No no no. Don't even fuckin' start. There's no way out right now so don't even think about it.. No way out? No way out no way out no way out no way out-_

He repeats in his head as he flops face down on the makeshift mattress, eyes wide in horror. He bunches two fistfuls of sheets, knuckles white.

 _Nothing ever works! I always wake up! Now I can't even try now I can't even numb everything I HAVE TO THINK AND THESE ASSHOLES ARE THE LAST HOPE FOR ALL THESE PEOPLE AND ALL THEY DO IS PUNISH AND GIVE ORDERS AND OH GOD WHY IS THE WORLD LIKE THIS WHY AM I LIKE THIS!_

He bites his lip 'til it bleeds, then stops and savors the taste, because he knows there's a camera right above /

 _Die cut die cut die cut die cut okay okay stop stop. You have to calm down. There's no other option. Calm. Calm. Calm._ br /

Rick takes shaky breathes and squeezes his eyes shut.

Slow breathing. It's okay it's not okay IT'S OKAY it's NOT!

He can't take it.

He bolts upright and screams at the top of his lungs. Nurses come in but he doesn't stop. He puts his head in his hands, screaming over and over and over. They're telling him to calm down. That he has to calm down or they'll have to give him medication.

He stops abruptly, his breath caught in his throat.

"Rick," A female nurse says coldly. "Pills or needle."

"Pills. Pills," He croaks quickly.

He looks up. There must've been a dozen nurses and techs looming over him. He fucked up. Suppressing every aspect of yourself does that to a person. He shakes quietly, staring at the floor in front of him.

 _They're going to silence me. There's no way out. Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep-_

He repeats, willing himself not to think about waking up to the abusive system he and all the other sick people in all these places are forced to live under.

 _Go to sleep go to sleep go to sleep-_

A nurse hands him pills and a cup of water. He takes them and watches the water in the foam cup ripple in his shaking hand. He takes a deep, hitching breath and downs the sedatives. Gently and slowly, he puts down the cups on the floor and lays back, eyes still wide staring at the ceiling.

They leave and he stares, repeating his three words, until nothing comes again.

Rick wakes up groggily lying on his back. _I guess I've got to pick my battles. I can't keep everything about me hidden for weeks. That's just a lot, I guess._

But he's bitter. So bitter. And his heart is in his stomach. He's mad at himself. And he's mad at the world. He's infuriated with everything.

He sits up, blinking, not used to this kind of anger. Or whatever it was.

It felt blank. Well, not blank. Kind of empty? He felt heavy and tired physically. So he lays back down, mind blissfully blank for now, and rests. He doesn't sleep. Just lies there. For a long, long time.


	5. Moved to Ao3

Hey everybody, I'm no longer posting on due to the formatting difficulties on mobile. Please continue reading at /works/7860661/chapters/18259501

Thank you!


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